He Who Controls
by Morestel
Summary: He paced to the middle of the cell, and with a long, unsteady breath, let the knife point rest gently against his chest. It felt odd, like the soft, uncertain touch of a finger against his skin. Loki closed his eyes. [Post-Thor, pre-Avengers]


**Author's Note:** I wrote this a little while ago when I was in a fairly terrible mood. My ideas of what happened to Loki during his time in the Void are still developing, especially in reference to my longer work, **On Shadow's Edge_, _**but this is at least an exploration of a moment.

_[Trigger warning: attempted suicide]_

* * *

><p><strong>He Who Controls<strong>

_Somewhere in Chitauri space…_

The cell had been darkened again. Loki breathed a soft, shaking sigh of relief as he was let in, and he did not turn around as he heard the door slide shut with a hiss behind him. He stood there for a moment, letting his eyes readjust. The darkness had long ago become his greatest comfort.

He moved now with his sense of touch, letting familiarity guide him to the low bed, where he slowly discarded his tunic and tossed it carelessly to the floor. There was a basin of water glimmering faintly in its niche in the wall, and for a moment his eyes widened. _He must have done well today. _

Trying to ignore the slight tremors in his hands, he slid his fingers into the cool liquid, relishing its movements against his skin before cupping some in his hands and splashing it across his face. It grew colder as it trickled down his neck and chest, and he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back.

He breathed, slowly and deeply, but it was not long before fear began to flicker at the edges of his mind. His throat constricted, and he swallowed, hard, trying to force it back. _Control_. That was what he had been taught. It would be a final irony, he thought, that he would soon be turning such lessons upon himself.

Fear and resolve were growing equally within him as he opened his eyes again and returned to the bed, kneeling down beside it and feeling around for his tunic. His fingers brushed against something cold and smooth, and a moment later, his hand had come away, clenching within its grasp a thin blade. He had hidden it, with the barest of movements, during his training. Weeks of waiting for such an opportunity had finally borne fruit.

Loki rose to his feet again, but more slowly, running one finger of his other hand along the knife's edge. It was a throwing tool, light and razor-sharp, and he knew its balance perfectly, for he had practised with it and others many times before.

He would not do so again.

His breath seemed to grow louder in the dark and the silence, and he became increasingly aware of each tiny movement—the tensing of his muscles, the rise and fall of his chest, the pounding of his own blood in his head. He was beginning to shake again, and he clenched his hand more tightly around the knife's hilt. He had made his choice, he told himself, made it long ago when this chamber had been burning and flooded with light, and even now when it was black and cool, he would not change his mind. He could not.

He paced to the middle of the cell, and with a long, unsteady breath, let the knife point rest gently against his chest. It felt odd, like the soft, uncertain touch of a finger against his skin.

Loki closed his eyes.

_I'm sorry._

They would not hear.

_Forgive me._

He tightened his hand around the knife, and braced his other on top of it. He emptied his mind, letting the darkness close in around him.

And then, quite suddenly, his muscles froze.

Loki's eyes flashed open, his heart pounding in a sudden panic as he realised he could not move. Clenching his teeth, he fought against it, with all his strength willing his hands to complete their work, but he might as well have been trying to drive the knife into the cell wall.

_Did you really think you could escape your purpose so easily?_

"_No_—" Loki choked out, his eyes burning as fear flooded through him. He made another futile attempt to move.

Seconds later, the paralysis vanished—but it was replaced in the same moment by a weakness so complete that he felt his body give way. He crumbled to the floor, the knife slipping from his grasp and spinning across the cell out of his reach. He curled in on himself as a hoarse sob escaped his lips.

_You wish for pain, Laufeyson? I will give it to you._

A scream tore itself from Loki's throat as his mind was invaded, broken, shattered. He could not fight; both mind and body were defenceless against the force that ripped through them. And when his torment was done, he could do no more than lie there, huddled and shaking, until, hours later, his quiet weeping dissolved into silence.


End file.
